


Evening on, and Twilight grey

by sablesheep



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Black Romance, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-13
Updated: 2013-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-25 07:27:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/636536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sablesheep/pseuds/sablesheep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's black, but it's still romance-- it's love, just a darker shade. And in those quiet moments before sleep, Mindfang likes to remember this, remember why she keeps him around and-- just maybe-- why he hasn't finished her yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Evening on, and Twilight grey

**Author's Note:**

> this is so saccharine for a blackrom fic that I should probably be exiled from the fandom, but I don't care. I like to think that black romance isn't always full of anger and rage and that, occasionally, you can be content to be in love. a weird, twisted sort of love, but love all the same.
> 
> also inexplicable headcanon due to a particularly lovely rp'er: Dualscar is Scottish. oops. 
> 
> (as always: title quote from Paradise Lost, John Milton)

Dualscar is an incredibly conscientious lover for someone in her black quadrant, Mindfang muses, eyes half open. She half wants to harass him for it, but considering how tired she is and how content he is, it hardly seems appropriate. There'll be time for that later, after all. He's stretched out like he owns the bed, flat on his back with his arms folded beneath his head. He's staring at the ceiling with an intolerably satisfied smirk and he's even started to smoke, lighting up a cigarette with a flick of an ornamental lighter he stole from her years ago. Asshole. He knows what she thinks about smoking in the bed. 

And that it’ll probably get them kicked out of the third hotel in a week. 

She wants to get out from beneath the sheets and hunt down some painkillers, perhaps with something a little stronger than water to rinse them down-- and maybe a little snack. But it's hard to move. She's comfortable here, head resting against his chest, listening to his heart beat in a strange rhythm that's anything but circadian and completely unlike her own. They're both cool-blooded to begin with, but he retains heat a bit longer than she does and for the moment he's warm and welcoming against the coolness of the summer air blustering in off the sea. 

Her skin is starting to sting where the salt air is coming into contact with her lacerations; bite marks so deep that in places that blood is still welling to the surface, staining her skin and the sheets bright blue. Bruises are forming on her wrists, neck, thighs, hips-- places where he'd held on so tightly she'd screamed obscenities at him over her orgasm, hair matted to her neck with the ferocity of their lovemaking and the heat of her temper. Her head is aching from where she'd been slammed into the headboard and all things considered, her wrist is probably sprained from falling halfway off the bed. 

Dualscar is everything _but_ gentle with her. If he were anyone else, she would berate them for it now, crawling atop of him and purring half-hearted chastisement into the shell of his ear. But he's never been one to take her bullshit and at this point in their relationship, decades along, she knows better than to try. Perhaps if they were young still, young and in the throes of passion so black it might kill them both, she'd attempt it, but now she's come to appreciate the finer things-- like a connoisseur who's finally learned to appreciate the full bouquets of wines. 

Perhaps things might not be as frenetic. Perhaps there aren't as many broken bones and bruised hearts. But she's not about to complain, and a quiet thought in the back of her heart whispers that she hopes he won't either. There's a certain sort of peace in these short moments, when they lay together side by side listening to waves crashing on the shore, feeling their hearts beat so out of sync but still together.

They need this, she likes to think. They need these moments together to simply exist as a unit, drawing strength from the presence of one another. Normally, he buoys her up with insults: snapped comments and jibes perfectly calculated to bruise instead of shatter, and she drives him on with snarled epithets and backhanded compliments. It's good we have this, she thinks, lifting her head just enough to press her lips to the scratches gouged deep in his chest by her nails. Because while she's as black as the midnight sea for him, there's no one in the world who could ever convince her she doesn't love him all the same. 

Even if he did rip her favorite dress, break her favorite pair of shoes and somehow managed to throw a bellhop out of the hotel window, she loves him. Loves him for how he'll never let her rest on her laurels, loves him for how she's _never good enough_ , loves him for how she'll always fail to meet his expectations. Loves him for how he makes her better, even as he's hissing down her throat that she's always doomed to fail.

In these moments together, she's content to let things be. Content to let things simmer to a warmth enough to scald but not burn, lingering close to him-- luxuriating in his presence instead of riling him up. He loves her too, she knows, showing it when he harrumphs at the way her skin looks where he's bitten down and spends ages bandaging her up, insisting that she not go anywhere until someone 'responsible' has had a look at her (she likes to argue that he's hardly responsible considering it's all his fault, but she submits to the attention all the same). He never disturbs her when they're like this, either-- he never snarls at her to get ahold of herself or get off of him. He lays there beside her, more often than not humming under his breath or sleepily telling her haphazardly constructed storybook tales that are calculated to make her laugh. 

A hand comes down from near the headboard to bury itself in her hair, rubbing gently at the back of her neck where knots have formed after a night of tension-- eight hours spent making spiteful love until both of them were too exhausted and too hungry to go again. Perhaps after they've slept they'll go a few more rounds but now? No. 

This is sacred. His hands are rough and calloused, but against the sensitive skin at the nape of her neck they're heavenly. She lets out a trill of pleasure that makes him chuckle. 

"A'right?" He asks, a little gruffly. She nods and gives him a halfhearted smile, stretching up to nuzzle into his neck. "Ack, wench, why do you always turn into rubber?"

He knows. He has to know. She's exhausted after he works her over on a normal day, not to mention the point in every sweep where he hits his mating frenzy. They've been up all night fighting it out until he finally gained the upper hand and-- well-- He can be devastating. And it's not as if this is the first time she's done this. 

She doesn't say anything in retort, though, content to simply reach up and let his gills flutter against the back of her hand. He gives her a look of undisguised grumpiness that very quickly breaks into a grudgingly fond smile. 

"Aww, lassie," He murmurs, leaning down and kissing her softly. "Don't look at me like that. You'd think yer flushed for me."

"Not on your life," She grumbles, melting a little as he puts out his cigarette and wraps both his arms around her, tucking her close against him and pulling the sheets up over her. "What idiot would take _you_ on as their responsibility?"

"Any wench _clever_ enough to see what a prize I am."

"Hmmm..." She cracks open an eye just enough to give him a smirk. "I think I was the _first_ to notice that, thank you very much."

"...Thank you, Fang." He says, voice lowering a little. He squeezes her tightly and she lets out a contented sigh. Four hours from now, his hands will be wrapped around her neck as she digs trenches into his shoulder with nails that have been filed expressly for that purpose. They'll scream obscenities until the hotel's concierge asks them to leave and then they'll set off on their merry chase across the seas, never once happy to end it all because-- well-- if they did that what would be left? 

They need this, really they do. These moments, alone together. The moments when they sit up and face each other and whisper, under the guise of threats, 'I love you', 'I love you 8est' and fall asleep together, happy for once to know that there's no battles left to fight until the sun rises. 

"Yer not so bad yerself," He finally mutters, grudgingly. "Certainly know how to keep a man happy."

"Oh, I'm well aware of my skills." She grumbles, pinching him softly. He growls and nips at her neck and she squeals but they both laugh and,before Mindfang has a chance to ask him, he's started to rub her back and hum a lullaby, something sweet and soft that he'll probably give her hell for over the next several perigees but she'll be damned if it doesn't lull her off to sleep before she can stop herself.

Yes, this is why they do it. This is why the fighting never ends. For these blissful moments with only the moon to witness, black and in love and content in each other's arms, safe in the knowledge that, despite their flaws, they're still worthy of this. 

_Worthy to be loved_.


End file.
